


and I heard you say, let’s lose ourselves out here always

by maggiedragon, na_shao



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-World War II, smut and well earned peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/na_shao
Summary: For Credence, the end of the war came in a brief flare of green smoke and the flutter of a piece of paper. The ripe scent of Floo flame-- melted paint, scorched wood, herbal and worn-- drifted through too big flat and he slid off the couch to go read it.It’s done. Home soon.-- PGGthe neatly folded note read, as if Credence somehow couldn’t recognize his lover’s handwriting after eighteen years. An anticlimax in swooping calligraphy.After decades of anxiety as Grindelwald’s influence grew on the continent, nearly two years of fear as the United Kingdom went to war and MACUSA dithered and fought amongst itself before finally leaping into the fray.But it was done and Percival and Theseus would come home weary in body and soul and the least he could do was give his lovers a haven.





	and I heard you say, let’s lose ourselves out here always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LotusRox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/gifts).



> For Lynx, who after a very bad election asked for "1945, Grindelwald's defeated and the queer people celebrate with alcohol and fucking." 
> 
> I think we missed the alcohol. 
> 
> Graphic by na_shao, text by maggiedragon with brainstorming, suggestions and all the best parts by na_shao.

No one was sure what had finally made Albus Dumbledore offer his wand arm to the Ministry but no one was going to argue. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect; in June 1944, the Muggles were preparing a final push and so were the mages, piling up men and intelligence, enchanted armor and sheer raw power. Despite it though, the Ministry’s greatest weapon, the _hungrige Rauch_ of Luftwaffe nightmares wouldn't be deployed. Credence Barebone was not to set foot on the Continent until Grindelwald had been located and secured. The invasion was a long shot; no one was risking delivering an Obscurial gift-wrapped to Nurmengard. 

So Theseus Scamander and Percival Graves went alone. There was no pretense this time, not like the last Great War-- the one that had been meant to end all wars, the one meant to be over by Christmas, the _great sodding cock-up_ that had sent an embittered loser hurtling towards the next conflagration. They went as lovers; shared a tent; Theseus cheerfully offered to duel anyone who felt the need to express an opinion about it. 

Graves’ concern for social niceties had burnt away in 1927 when when, after a thousand nights of breathing painful fire in his lungs, Theseus had left the imprint of his lips on his, and Credence had done the same without looking back in fear. There had been the faintest trace of plausible deniability from the ‘20s and into the ‘30s, when polite society could cling to the delusional idea that Credence Barebone was simply Graves’ ward; Theseus Scamander the old friend who (too often) came to visit. But when the two of them debarked in London in December 1941 with war on their heels and instructions to offer any assistance possible, Graves had laughed in the face of the man who’d offered him a hotel. 

“We’ll be staying with our lover, thank you,” he told him politely and apparated away as the man gaped in astonishment.

They’d had nearly four years like that: four years of Theseus’ small Kensington flat filled to burst with three men and their things. Dragon Barrel Brandy that Graves still somehow acquired, rationing or not; Theseus’ gramophone and record collection; Credence’s slowly accumulating library of poetry, magic, novels, history; some of Newt’s sketches framed on the walls; a bed bespelled with _Engorgio_ to fit the three of them, the Kneazle, and Theseus’ tendency to sprawl comfortably. 

Was it cowardly to be perversely grateful? Theseus had to wonder in April 1945. He’d had three years of his lovers in his life, in his home, in his bed and it wouldn’t have happened any other way. 

Didn’t mean he still didn’t want Gellert Grindelwald dead. 

They left Grindelwald to Dumbledore though. The rumors of the Elder Wand remained only rumors, but either way, the fascist was a formidable duellist. The scar on Theseus’ back, the scars in Graves’ dreams: they were testament to that. If anyone had a chance, it was Dumbledore alone, so they focused on securing Nurmengard. Wards fell; walls shattered. They wrapped his lieutenants up with _Incarcerous_ , Side-Alonged them to a holding location. They burned the library-- Dark tomes full of research that never needed to see the light of day again. Even if Grindelwald left his duel triumphant, he would have nothing to come back to. They’d seen to that. 

Theseus had just returned to Nurmengard from the holding cells when Graves caught his arm. “Thes. Look.” 

The older man pointed towards the eastern sky, where the fading green-and-gold sparks of a signal flare still hung in the darkening blue sky. Dumbledore’s signal. 

It was done. 

“Fuck,” Theseus said simply and let his head fall against Graves’ shoulder. It felt like someone had pulled the plug on a sink. All of the adrenaline and fear and drive of the past ten months drained out of him in an instant, leaving him hollow and exhausted. 

“I know.” Graves’ hand skimmed over the back of his head, the copper hair cropped short in a military-issue (and much bemoaned) whitewall cut. His other hand wrapped around Theseus’ shaking fingers, steadied them on the unadorned cypress wand. Their faces were smudged with blood and smoke. 

“Fuck,” Theseus echoed even as he felt Graves tilt his chin up, angle his mouth up to face his. 

“I know,” Graves said again and kissed him. It was slow and steadying, like the white cliffs of Dover and the salt spray of the Atlantic, like chips and malt vinegar and a pint of mild, like coming _home_ and Theseus found himself clinging to the other man, both of them adrift together in the ruins of Nurmengard, no lighthouse here to guide them through the bones and spirits lost in blood, just the broken vowels of whimpers and whines, constellations of short-cropped hair under palms. 

It would be enough. It had been before. It would again. 

Theseus was gasping by the time they broke apart, leaning on Graves in the ruins of the fortress. His lips were warm, red and swollen from kisses and he noticed the area around them had been vacated. Sod it. Let the other Aurors be uncomfortable. 

“...come home,” he breathed, sliding wand-callused fingers along Graves’ jaw, still pristinely smooth, not even a flush of stubble despite having been in the field for ten months. “Please, Perce.” 

Theseus wouldn’t, couldn’t ask him to stay. There was too much that Graves-- that Credence-- would have to give up to stay in London now that the war was all but over. There would be treaties to assign, the winding down to negotiate but...a matter of months. But he could think it. He could call the Kensington flat _home_ and pray that Perce knew he meant _for them too_ and take whatever solace he could in how readily his lover agreed. 

“Of course. I have an Apparition cue for Calais. I’ll do the first leg?” 

 

===

For Credence, the end of the war came in a brief flare of green smoke and the flutter of a piece of paper. The ripe scent of Floo flame-- melted paint, scorched wood, herbal and worn-- drifted through too big flat and he slid off the couch to go read it. 

_It’s done. Home soon.-- PGG_ the neatly folded note read, as if Credence somehow couldn’t recognize his lover’s handwriting after eighteen years. 

_It’s done._ An anticlimax in swooping calligraphy. After decades of anxiety as Grindelwald’s influence grew on the continent, nearly two years of fear as the United Kingdom went to war and MACUSA dithered and fought amongst itself. After the heartstopping two weeks during the Blitz when Theseus had missed a Portkey and the bombs had damaged the Floo network so thoroughly they weren’t able to reach him. Percival had been about to commandeer his own Portkey to go looking for him when Theseus had shown up on their doorstep, windblown and sleepless, battle-scarred and helpless. 

_So many bombs, Perce_ he had said and the silence of the New York night had left him anxious and unable to sleep. 

Credence touched the tattoo on the inside of his wrist-- the inky periculid hiding a tender pink heart, the Warrior King iris with its burgundy petals and riotous copper stamens. When Theseus had finally been calmed into sleep that night, Percival had sat up researching and brought them to a goblin tattoo parlor the next day-- each of them getting the blooms etched into their skin. They would never _not know_ again. Both flowers bloomed, healthy and thriving without the rose flush that framed the petals when there was danger. 

_Home soon_ and he let himself pick up the Kneazle and hug her tightly, bury his face and his smile in his fur. Percival and Theseus had gotten leave before, come home weary in body and soul. He could give them a place to rest, his lovers. That was the least he could do. 

===

One Apparition back to Calais. The four Tiger tanks the Vice-Minister of Security had personally shredded were slowly rusting in the dark and the rain, the burgundy oxide a lingering echo of the blood he had spilled to do it. It was quiet and still in the aftermath of the war; swallows swerving in the twilight air the only motion.

Theseus found the old horse-trough they’d used before, battered but still intact; Graves used _Aquamenti_ to fill it and in the thin light of the young moon, they washed off as much of the blood and dirt as they could. Off their hands and forearms, off the tattoos-- Credence’s purple anemone twining into Theseus’ iris, Graves’ periculid. 

“Got some on your face,” Theseus pointed out, brushing the same spot on his own.

“Oh. No. That’s mine. Must have gotten cut.”

“Let me fix that. _Episkey.”_

There was only so much they could do. The smell of it lingered in their hair, their uniforms, but it was better than nothing. 

“Home?”

“Home.” 

A spell, the thunder-crack of empty air and the field outside Calais stood empty again. 

===  
Another apparition and the warmth of the Kensington flat nearly staggered them both after the damp chill of the April night, the Calais field. Credence saw them appear in the living room, mud-brown and olive drab, gaiters and caps. He had to remind himself to set the knife down carefully by the cutting board, the bunch of carefully washed kale still only half-diced before he bolted into the living room towards them.

He collided with Theseus first, rough fabric against his skin even as he could feel Percival touch him as well, hands on his waist, a kiss against the back of his neck. 

“Easy!” Theseus caught him, steadied him, a thread of laughter in his voice. “Did you miss us?” 

Credence nodded wordlessly against his neck. Fluttering paper through the Floo, the iris and perculid growing strong against his pulse: it still wasn’t enough, wasn’t certain. 

“Say it. I want to hear one of you say it.” 

“It’s done.” Graves’ baritone was warm against the back of his neck. “We saw him sealed in Nurmengard before we left.” 

Theseus had insisted on staying to see it done-- _You need to see this or it won’t ever let you go_ \-- held his white-knuckled hand when the fear Graves thought he’d finally left in the past set in. Still, despite having borne witness, it was Credence’s reaction that drove the point home. He sagged between them, a tension so long in his spine they’d forgotten it was there for finally disappearing. 

It was over. They had _won_.

The smell of butter, cinnamon and sugar hung in the warm air of the apartment and Theseus smiled, threading his fingers through his hair. “Baking?”

“Meant to have supper ready,” Credence answered and offered a Gallic shrug. “...finished dessert at least. Your mum sent me some of the Cox apples.” They’d been small and misshapen, the last fruit the tree would bear until mid-September, but he knew the other two wouldn’t mind the irregular-shaped cubes, the sugar ration supplemented with bartered honey, the crust held together with two weeks of butter rations, water and when all else failed, _prayer_. 

“Sweet tooth,” Graves murmured in fond accusation. 

“Because you don’t like apple pie at all,” Theseus drawled. The Brit adored apple pie; he’d inevitably recount the story that his mum used to make it when he and Newt came home from Hogwarts for Christmas at some point this evening. And Graves did too-- not that he ever said it, but eighteen years had taught Credence to read the slight quirk to his lips when he ate. 

“And freshened up,” Graves noted and the rumble in his voice made Credence go scarlet. There was a trace of citrus and spruce on his skin, nearly five year old cologne that he had hoarded and used sparingly throughout the war-- on birthdays and anniversaries, on New Year’s Eves and just the days the knowledge that he had both of them, oak and flame, an immovable object and an unstoppable force, made him audacious and his lovers found him waiting naked and flush-cheeked and kissed with the fragrance. 

The end of a nightmare had seemed like another good moment to use it. 

“Well then. That’s decided,” Theseus and picked Credence up with a grin. 

“Theseus!” Credence squeaked in protest even as his legs wrapped around the Brit’s waist. “Put me down! You’ll hurt yourself.” 

“Are you calling me old?” Theseus asked as he carried Credence down the hallway toward the bedroom. “I’ve barely turned fifty.” 

“You turned fifty months ago.” 

Graves signed and checked in the kitchen first, making sure that the oven and stove weren’t turned on and that neither of his beloved idiots were going to _burn the flat down_ in their eagerness for each other’s skin. Whether Theseus liked it or not, whined about the silver shimmering like veins of metal in the deep red earth of his hair, they’d gotten old. Graves himself was approaching sixty, more grey than black in his hair and crow’s feet by his eyes that Credence kissed lightly early in the morning. _They’re how I know when you smile for real, Percival,_ he’d said. Even Credence wasn’t the boy he’d seen handing out pamphlets in the freezing rain on Broadway. 

But they’d gotten old together. And that was a miracle he didn’t know who to thank for. 

By the time he reached the bedroom; Theseus’ wool battle dress jacket was already in a heap on the floor, his shoes scattered forgotten in front of the bed. Credence’s voice was laughing softly under Theseus. 

“You’re ridiculous; don’t you want dinner?” 

“Mmm. Dessert first.” Theseus kissed a line down Credence’s throat. 

“And you’re running out of new flatteries,” Graves chided the Brit as he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for Credence’s hand, cupping in his before pressing a kiss to the center of his lover’s palm. He licked the pad of each finger too-- tasting the faint traces of butter and sugar, the labor of making, the love in it-- and then pressed a kiss against the flowers blooming over frail skin and blue veins. 

“Percival.” Credence reached for him in turn, brought him close to kiss. Theseus shifted, ceding space to him and mapped a line down Credence’s chest. They’d had each other to themselves for months on the continent beyond the scattered moments of leave, big bodies tangled close on the cramped camp bed. It was good to focus on Credence for the moment, pay him the attention he deserved. 

White moonlight limned street lights, dusting opalescent hope over buildings half-rebuilt from the Blitz. It spilled in through the skylight, picking up the ivory of Credence’s skin, the silver in Theseus’ hair, the gleaming hardwood floor. The room itself was almost as quiet, muted sighs and whispers, Credence's voice a silver bell sparkling in the silence.

“God, I missed you.” Credence hid his smile against Graves’ neck.

“I know, my boy,” Graves swallowed the sounds with his mouth, traced a broad wand callused palm down his jaw, neck, chest. “We missed you too. But we have time." 

“Good that we do. _How_ are you still fully dressed?” One of Theseus’ sock garters bounced off Graves’ arm and the Brit, cheerfully half-hard and naked as a jaybird, reached for him over Credence’s body, hand sliding down to palm at him through his pants. 

Graves willed his clothing away, the magic wandless and overlaid his fingers over Theseus’, pressing over his cock. “Was this what you were hoping for?” he asked archly. 

“Was it what _you_ were hoping for?” Theseus offered a salacious grin and his meek sounding voice was a deliberate provocation. He his legs were casually tangled with Credence’s and he pressed a delicate kiss against the younger man’s throat. 

Graves pulled him close with a growl and it turned into a tangle of limbs and bodies, cinnamon and citrus and cologne until he was kneeling between his legs, hands curved over his hips like red bows and pressing him into the mattress, moans and whimpers shivering out of his throat in echoes. Percival met his eyes and everything in him twisted tightly; the shadow of what had been hidden for so many months in the midst of ignorant armies clashing day and night.

Credence’s cheeks were stained red with desire and he mouthed at Graves’ throat, hips squirming indiscriminately. 

Theseus buried his smile against his collarbone and sucked a mark there, just where his collar would rest, starched for straight for society and pressed against the reminder of how much he was wanted. 

“What do you want, baby?” the Brit asked. 

“I don’t care; I don’t care,” Credence gasped in response and then amended. “Both of you.” 

“I think we can manage that,” Graves answered and a snap of his fingers left them coated and dripping in slick. 

“Show-off,” Theseus snorted.

“And you love it,” Graves returned evenly before dedicating his attention to Credence, mouth wrapping around him again, fingers working, opening him up as Credence squirmed and whimpered into Theseus’ mouth. 

Theseus did. He couldn’t take his eyes away from his lovers: Credence’s pressed against his side, creamy skin damp with sweat, chest heaving as he trembled and whined under Graves’ ministrations. Perce’s pomade had lost its grip on the silvery central sweep of his hair and it fell in loose tendrils around his face. His cheeks were hollowed, eyes closed so the lashes laid over his skin. 

Merlin, but they were beautiful together and Theseus pressed a kiss against Credence’s skin. He hadn’t ever expected this: to have a second chance with Perce or for the wary boy he and his brother had found shuddering and devastated in the ruins of the church to blossom into the man he had in his arms. He hadn’t ever expected Percival to wake up, to walk again. He hadn’t expected both of his lovers to arrive on his doorstep with war on their heels. 

He hadn’t expected for a part of him to hope the war never ended.

Slick fingers closed around him, pulling him out of the reverie. 

“Fuck, Percival, Merlin,” he choked out, arching into the wand-callused palm, strong fingers he knew as well as his own. 

Graves arched a thick slash of an eyebrow and nodded towards Credence; the younger man was flushed and squirming against both of him. “All yours.” 

“You sure?” 

“Always liked watching you dance.” 

A corner of Graves’ mouth had quirked up in the suggestion of a smile and Theseus couldn’t help kissing it. He hadn’t expected this either, hadn’t ever expected Graves to come back to him, to smile in the way that only the three of them knew was salacious. He hadn’t expected the beautiful boy to want him, to want both of them, to ask why, in a world where magic did miracles and men married men, why a number was the only incontrovertible law. 

Theseus took the place Graves ceded to him but Credence twisted and refused to let go of the older man’s hand. 

“Both of you,” he insisted again, squirming until his back was to Theseus, pushing Graves to sprawl in front of him. “Like this. Is that okay?” 

Theseus read his own stark desire in the mirror of Perce's face and bent his head to press a kiss against Credence's creamy shoulder. 

“Like this, baby,” he agreed. 

Credence was slick and hot already, open from Graves’ ministrations. Theseus stifled his moan against the younger man’s skin, unable to resist the urge to bury himself in his lover's body, push him forward into Graves’ lap. 

Cinnamon and salt sweat hung in the air, quiet overlaid the soft sound of movement and moans. Credence's skin under Theseus’ lips was still marked with scars, silvery and thin with the distortions of muscle and time. Hands met and mapped over the younger man’s skin. Graves’ fingers tangled in Credence’s long dark hair making the loose braid disintegrate under the touch.

Credence’s whimper was soft, choked, caught between his lovers’ as every motion from Theseus pushed him into Graves. The younger man’s lips were damp with spit, swollen from friction; his eyelids fluttered shut as he worked. 

“God, baby, I wish you could see yourself,” Theseus leaned down to whisper in Credence’s ear, his own copper hair dripping into his lover’s black. The Brit couldn’t help the intensity of his grip, knowing his fingers were laying purple bruises into his skin as if the mark could chase away what victory would cost. It had been nearly four years, his Kensington flat bursting with three men, books, whiskey, the Kneazle, but without the rationale of the war, would Credence and Percival return to New York? 

Could he bear to let them? 

“Thes.” Blunt fingers in his hair, over his skin, Graves’ sharp cheekbones stained rose with pleasure, breath hitching in rhythm with the soft sound of Credence’s mouth around his cock. “You ought to see yourself.” 

A baritone reminder, a _Mercy Lewis, I love you_ , a _don’t you know how beautiful you are, darling_ in Perce’s own inexpressive idiom. Theseus felt his eyes burn. He pressed a kiss against the American’s tattoo-- Credence’s purple anemone and his own ruffled burgundy iris-- and lost himself in both of them. Credence moved under him, pushing back against him. Graves’ hands skimmed over both of them, the rough baritone murmurs inciting, encouraging. _You're doing so good, Thes_ let off in a whisper, heart thudding in the Brit’s ears as Credence nearly flowed between them, whimpers under his breath and eyes dark and hooded in concentration.

It was over too soon, a mess of sweat and spend, leaving the three of them collapsed in an entangled pile, hearts pounding. 

Graves was the first to break the silence, the fingers of one hand moving idly in Credence’s hair, the other knuckles brushing slowly against the small of Theseus’ back. 

“We need more bookshelves,” Graves finally broke the silence. 

“...I’m sorry. What?” Theseus lifted his head. “The guest room already looks like a library.” 

“When I send for the rest of our books, there won’t be enough shelves.”

“I don’t--” Why would Perce be sending for his and Credence’s books unless… Theseus lifted his head, trying to read the older man’s face. “Oh bugger off, Perce. Don’t you dare-- don’t you joke about this.” 

“Do you think I’d give this up?” Graves’ fingers ran along the Brit’s jaw and the long conversation that they’d had so many times before went unsaid.

_You have._

_And I was a fool. Never again, Thes. I’m not letting either of you out of my sight ever again._

“Your Vice-Minister--- Sicaire-- he’s been wanting to retire after what happened in Calais,” Graves offered with an expansive shrug. “His leg’s never been the same and he offered the position to me. The Minister’s willing to waive the citizenship requirement.” 

Theseus’ breath caught, warmth shimmering in his heart, sparkling down his finger tips. Percival. Credence. They were staying and the mere idea of it made his chest go so tight that he only managed the profoundly intelligent “So I’d be working under you?” 

Graves arched a single expressive eyebrow, lips quirking in the hint of a smile as he waited for Theseus to puzzle out the dirty joke he’d unintentionally made. 

“Which I’m _so good_ at doing. Sod off, Perce,” and Theseus threw a pillow at him to hide his laughter, the way his eyes had gone wet. They were staying. 

Outside, dawn was breaking, hiding the essence of the night. Wizarding London woke to the news that the long shadow of war was finally being dispelled. Green flame popped and whirled on the hearth, depositing the morning’s _Daily Prophet_ but Credence didn’t pay it any mind as he walked by it to fetch the apple pie. The Wizarding Wireless Network broadcast a sober address from Minister of Magic Spencer-Moon, but Graves left the radio tuned to another station, soft jazz in the early morning as flickering lights from his lovers' magic combed Theseus’ hair long again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to us at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/ and http://angryzilla.tumblr.com/


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